


Bloom (Can I Be Close To You?)

by nerddowell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Floriography, M/M, Renly is adorably dense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 22:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8819518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: Honestly, the last thing anyone expected for twenty-five-year old Renly Baratheon to be following as a career was becoming a tattoo artist.
Renly/Loras Tattooist/Florist AU because why the hell not? Also featuring the whole Tyrell clan, Sansa and Margaery being insufferably cute, Baratheon & Tyrell family feels... and so many bunches of flowers that you wonder how Margaery has time to be doing anything else.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In which I am firmly back in 'write what you know' territory! This is based on my home town, where the tattoo parlour that have done most of the inkwork on me actually really do have a florist right next door (and a Subway the shop after that), and my boyfriend, who has long curly blondish-brown hair and has genuinely been mistaken for Finn Jones before, lives in Bath and drinks Old Rosie, a real cider which I highly recommend to those of you legally allowed to drink.
> 
> Basically this came so easily to me I wrote it in one afternoon, and when Dan reads this he's probably going to give me A Look for turning him into the fictional Loras in this, but meh. He'll get over it.
> 
> Titled after the song by the Paper Kites because it fits.

Honestly, the last thing anyone expected for twenty-five-year old Renly Baratheon to be following as a career was becoming a tattoo artist. Renly, who had always shied away from needles at the doctor’s office and the sight of blood; Renly, who dressed well and kept his beard neat and his long hair tied back; Renly, with his public-school accent only delicately touched by the East Midlands where he’d grown up. Renly, a tattoo artist. Impossibly unlikely.

And yet, here he was, shirtsleeves rolled up, delicate geometric patterns traced over his lower forearms (mostly to aggravate a disapproving Stannis; Robert hadn’t batted an eyelid, just grunted a ‘What’re they supposed to mean?’ and then completely ignored Renly’s enthusiastic and long-winded discussion of planetary movements and constellations), dipping his needle into a small pot of black ink balanced on the arm of his chair and asking an intensely nervous Sansa if she was ready for him to begin. (Sansa was the receptionist at the parlour where he worked; she mostly sat at the desk handling appointments and payments from behind the massive bunches of flowers her girlfriend Margaery was always sending, and blushing fiercely whenever a new delivery arrived).

“I suppose so,” she told him, biting her lip. She was whey-pale, sweating bullets, and Renly smiled, carefully peeling away the stencil of the peony from her wrist.

“It’s only going to hurt as much as you think it will,” he tried to reassure her. “I wasn’t in much pain at all for mine. And if you honestly can’t stand it, we can stop and I’ll finish it another day. You don’t have to go through it all in one sitting.”

She nodded, seeming relieved, and Renly bent over her arm and started the tattoo machine buzzing. After a minor flinch, Sansa set her jaw and leant back, closing her eyes against the sting.

* * *

  
A few hours later, Renly was sat at his desk with his sketchpad, eyes on the latest hot air balloon-sized bunch of flowers on reception, doodling the collection of roses, balloon flowers, aster, heartsease and hibiscus (Margaery knew how much Sansa loved purple). The recipient in question was on the phone, making notes on the computer system and discussing the size and requirements of what Renly understood to be a cover-up design with a potential client. The door banging downstairs and the heavy footfalls of Doc Marten-clad feet heralded the entrance of her sister long before Arya’s messy brown bob and crumpled school uniform appeared through the doorway. As usual, she completely ignored Sansa at the desk and dropped her satchel down by Renly’s station, flopping into the tattoo chair and snatching a _Skin Deep_ magazine off his desk to flick through.

“How long will it be until I can come and work here again?”

“In two years,” Renly promised, “when you turn eighteen. The same thing I tell you every time you ask.” He turned the sketchbook around, cocking his head and surveying the flowers he’d drawn critically before sighing and slapping the book closed. “Besides, I was pretty sure your mum and dad want you to go to university. They want you both to have real careers, not to just slob around with me here.” He grinned at Sansa, who with her silk-smooth auburn hair and neatly pressed blouses could never be described as a slob, and patted Arya’s knee. “Give it a few years and I’m sure you’ll have the world at your feet and you won’t even want to come and work for your old Uncle Renly anymore.”

“I like working for you,” Sansa said loyally, and then blushed. She reached up to push her hair behind her ear, and the cuff of her sweater lowered, displaying the new clingfilm-covered tattoo at her wrist. Arya sat bolt upright and dropped the magazine, leaping off the chair to grab Sansa’s wrist for a closer look.

“What’s that?!”

“Nothing, it’s – it’s none of your business!” Sansa protested, the pink in her cheeks deepening to bright red. Arya crowed in delight.

“You got a tattoo!”

“I’m more than old enough, _Arya_ , to be doing whatever I want with my own body!”

“Mum’s going to kill you,” Arya sing-songed, prodding at the new design, and Sansa winced.

“No she won’t, Arya, because you’re not going to breathe a word to her or – or – or I’ll tell her about you smoking behind the shed with Jon and Robb!”

“I never did!”

“And Mum’s really going to take your word for it over mine?”

Arya scowled at her, dropping her hand, and waved in outrage at her sister, appealing to Renly. “You gave her a tattoo and you won’t let me come and work for you until I’m eighteen?”

“That’s the law, Arya. I’ve already got a receptionist, so you can’t take over Sansa’s role, and you’re not legally allowed to start tattooing people until you’re eighteen, apprenticeship or no. Besides, as Sansa said, she’s nineteen and can do as she likes now.”

“It’s not fair,” Arya pouted, and Sansa snorted.

“Life’s not fair.”

Arya hit her, and Sansa yelped, clutching her arm and glowering at her sister.

* * *

  
At 2:34pm the next day, just as Renly had sat down with his slightly-soggy BLT sandwich from the nearby Tesco’s, his cover-up from Sansa’s phone call came in, frog-marched into the studio by Margaery herself. From what Renly could see of him, he looked like a sullen teenager, with long, curling brown hair just like Margaery’s hiding his face as he slouched through the door, and a lithe, slightly gangling frame with a green apron with the golden rose logo of Tyrell’s Florist on it tied around his waist. Renly vaguely remembered Sansa having told him about Margaery having several brothers, all of whom worked in the florists with her. If he remembered correctly, Sansa had had something of a low-level crush on the youngest one, who had gone to school with Robb and Jon, before having met his sister and the low-level crush had gone flying out the window to be replaced by a blushing, all-encompassing obsession. Arya was constantly complaining about it and making gagging noises into Renly’s trashcan whenever the subject was raised.

Anyway, Margaery leant over the desk, cooing at Sansa and talking all about the flowers she’d sent earlier that morning (the blush returning full force to Sansa’s porcelain cheeks) as the sullen teenager came and stood by Renly’s chair, pushing his curly hair back with a headband. Renly was about to make a comment about 2003 David Beckham’s hairstyle apparently coming back into fashion when he looked up properly and promptly all words, tongue in cheek or not, fled.

This boy – man – was gorgeous. Looking at him, he completely understood Sansa’s crush and then some. Margaery’s brother had beautiful shining amber eyes, high cheekbones, full lips and the kind of haughty, proud look on his face that always got Renly’s pulse racing. In school, he’d even had a short-lived thing for Robert’s brother-in-law, Jaime; this man was Jaime come again, minus the insufferable siblings and about a thousand times as hot.

“Guh,” he mumbled, and then cursed under his breath. _Get a grip, Baratheon_ , he told himself sternly in his most Stannis-like voice, _you’ve seen attractive men before…_ He looked up again slyly, trying to make it look like he wasn’t staring and probably failing. _But not this attractive_ , he whined, shaking his head. Thank God Sansa was still entranced by Margaery, and Arya at school. He didn’t want anyone witnessing his humiliating total loss of control when placed in front of this modern Adonis. Renly Baratheon was, after all, infamously never lost for words.

He cleared his throat and tried again. “So, um, I hear you’re here for a cover up?”

“Yeah,” Adonis said, sitting down in his chair, “Margaery insists that it’s about time and that since I never spend my paychecks on anything anyway, I might as well get someone half decent to do something about the tattoo I got in, as she puts it, ‘someone’s dingy basement’ when I was fifteen.” He reached up to the collar of his shirt, pulling it off in one smooth movement, and Renly felt his breath catch. Miles of clear, golden-brown skin appeared, a lightly muscled chest, and – oh. He caught sight of what he hoped was the ‘tattoo’, if it could even be called that, the guy wanted covering up. It looked half-finished, the colours gappy and faded and the lines wobbly as though drawn by the hand of a toddler. It was a crime to leave such a stain on a body like that, and Renly couldn’t wait to get started.

“Ouch.”

“Like I said, I was fifteen. Not many reputable artists will tattoo a fifteen year old, especially one with a fake license as bad as mine was. The picture was held on with Pritt stick.”

“Crumbs,” Renly said, sounding like someone’s grandfather, and the guy grinned. His smile lit his face up like the sun on a summer day, and oh god, Renly was beginning to sound like Sansa’s bad teenage poetry. (Arya had insisted on reading some of it out to him when she stole her sister’s diary a couple of years ago, and now whenever Renly thought of Sansa’s ex he could only imagine him in terms of bright yellow, and the purple and black bruises he used to leave on Sansa’s pale arms.)

“What did you have in mind to cover it up with?”

“Not really a cover up, just… doing the same design again? I still want a rose on my side, I just want a decent one instead of this insult to horticulture everywhere.”

Renly nodded. “You work in the florists with Margaery, right? I suppose a flower was a natural first choice for you.”

“It’s been the symbol of our family for years, apparently. Since the Tudor times, you know, when roses were so big. I mean, we’re not from York or Lancaster, we’re down in Bath with the rest of the posh knobs, but we used to have this huge golden rose on a green shield as our ancestral coat of arms or something, so I figured I’d get something like that done. We’ve always been one of those families who’re proud of our heritage, or something, and besides, Margaery had bet me a tenner I wouldn’t dare, so here it is.”

Renly grinned. “I hope you spent the tenner on something worthwhile.”

“Not really,” he confessed, “spent it on going to the cinema with a lad that turned out to be straighter than an arrow. Didn’t even get a snog for my wasted time.”

“Tough crowd,” Renly said, forcibly light. His stomach was doing somersaults. Not only was this guy beautiful, he was gay as well – or bi, he corrected himself. Either way, he was interested in dick which meant Renly, with all the luck he could muster, might be in with a shot. He felt faint.

“Yep. Oh,” the man held out his hand, “I’m Loras, by the way.”

“I’d love to shake, but I’d have to scrub up again, and it’d delay us by a good ten minutes or so. Still, nice to make your acquaintance.” He smiled. “I’m Renly, I own the studio.” He focused on applying the stencil of the rose he’d sketched yesterday from Sansa’s bunch and fixed it over the monstrosity on Loras’ rib, holding up a mirror so Loras could check for himself. At his nod, Renly set the machine buzzing and leant down, carefully beginning to trace the stem of the rose up towards Loras’ armpit.

“Sorry if I stink. The aircon’s broken next door, the only things not wilting are the orchids.”

“You’re fine, all I can smell is Lynx,” Renly said, poking his tongue between his teeth in concentration. “So how long have you been working at Tyrell’s?”

“Five years,” Loras said, trying to arch his neck to watch what Renly was doing. “It’s the family business, so we all work there on and off between uni etc. I’m there pretty much permanently, so’re Mum and Garlan. Margaery’s part time with uni, and Willas is part time because he’s not supposed to work long hours. He got hit by a car when I was ten or so, still can’t really walk that well, but he uses crutches. Just means it’s doctor’s orders that he’s not on his feet for too long, and because we’re so busy there’s not much time for sitting down. He mostly just handles the till and taking orders, though, so we do what we can for him.”

“It sounds like a lovely place to work.” Renly dipped his needles in the ink again and went back to tracing. “I can’t imagine ever working so peacefully with my brothers.”

“No?”

“Nope. They’re both much older than me, of course – Robert by about fifteen years, Stannis by about ten. I shouldn’t badmouth them too much, I mean, they raised me; or at least got Dad to. Our parents died when I was a baby, so we had a guardian called Cressen that Stannis said our dad used to work with. He was the one I call Dad. Anyway, Robert was never there when I was a kid, and now he’s off running some important part of the country and drinking himself blind, and Stannis is the CEO of our parents’ company and calls me every so often to remind me that my ‘lifestyle’ is a sin and to ask when I’m going to get a real career.” He shook his head, flicking a loose strand of hair out of his eyes. “Anyway, listen to me wailing on, all ‘woe is me’. You don’t need or want to hear about all that.”

Loras was watching him with soft, sad brown eyes, and shook his head, jaw set angrily. “No. That’s not fair. What is it that Stannis disapproves of, anyway?”

“What doesn’t he disapprove of? He says I’m too frivolous, that I’m wasting my god-given talents–” He noticed Loras rolling his eyes and snorted. “– Oh yeah, he’s been really big on the whole ‘God gave you these gifts for a reason, and you waste them doodling on people for a living! You should be helping me run this company now that Robert’s almost bankrupted it! You should be getting married and having children, not off chasing every young man you can find and dragging them back to that midden heap you call a flat above that depraved ‘tattoo parlour’’–”

Loras was now looking alarmed, and Renly snorted.

“My flat’s not that bad. It’s a little on the messy side, true, but there’s a posh kitchen I don’t know how to use and a power shower that I do, and a tv with as many Sky channels as I could afford and even a little balcony.” He sighed. “Stannis has just let that PA of his get in his head. She’s some kind of super-devout Catholic, all ‘God hates the gays’ and ‘You’ll burn in hell for your sins’, and yet everyone knows she’s been fucking him for years and somehow her precious God doesn’t care about that, even though Stannis is married.”

“Christ,” Loras said succinctly. Renly laughed.

* * *

  
The next morning, bundled up against the cold in a beanie, scarf, coat, gloves and boots, Renly waved to the baristas already at work in the coffee shop below the tattoo parlour and arrived to unlock the side door to his shop to see the familiar Tyrell’s delivery man waiting with not one, but two bunches of flowers. “Sansa got lucky today,” he smiled, signing for the delivery, and headed up to the parlour on the second floor. The flowers today were more of Sansa’s favourites, this time yellow – baby’s breath, dwarf sunflowers, tulips, lemon blossom and jasmine in one bunch, with Margaery’s familiar elegant handwriting, and a new note with a sprawling hand attached to a bunch of red and yellow flowers, apple blossom and yarrow. This bunch was caringly put together, he could tell, but full of clashing colours and scents, not at all like Margaery’s usual carefully planned bouquets. Strange. Shrugging it off, he placed both bunches of flowers on her desk and concentrated on checking his calendar for appointments, getting all the things he needed ready for his first client, a regular whose left arm sleeve should be just about finished after today’s sitting.

Sansa arrived ten minutes later, red-cheeked and huffing slightly in the cold. She smiled at the sight of the flowers on her desk and immediately went to fetch vases for them both. Upon picking up the second bunch, she frowned at the label and turned to Renly.

“Who are these for?”

“They’re not yours?” he asked, still focusing on wrapping his chair. “They arrived with your usuals from Margaery, I figured she’d just been especially lavish today.”

“This isn’t her writing.” Sansa squinted at the label. “‘Sorry about your arsehole family’ – these definitely aren’t mine. At least I hope not. Margaery loves my family, Mum and Dad adore her.”

Renly got up and came over to the desk, leaning over her shoulder to read the label. It did indeed say _Sorry about your arsehole family_ , in a wide, sprawling hand with an illegible signature at the bottom. Renly shrugged and suggested putting them in the bin, but Sansa shook her head and placed the vase on Renly’s desk proudly.

“There. At least your corner will look pretty for once.”

“My corner always looks pretty,” Renly protested, wounded, “it’s got all my flash cards up there–”

“Yes, but flowers brighten the place up so nicely,” Sansa said bossily, shuffling the papers on her desk, “and besides, if someone did send them to us on purpose, and they came in later, how would they feel seeing them in the bin?”

Renly almost argued, but at the look on Sansa’s face thought better of it.

* * *

  
At the sound of the parlour door opening that afternoon, Renly was almost ready to acknowledge Sansa’s psychic streak. Loras walked through the door, all gloriously wild curls and winter-flushed cheeks, bundled up in a coat and an adorable blue bobble hat, and the moment he set eyes on the bunch of flowers in the vase on Renly’s desk his whole face split into another of his blinding smiles. Renly quickly told his stomach to stop trying out for the 2020 Olympic gymnastic team and smiled back, holding out his hand.

“Let’s have that shake finally, shall we? How are you, Loras? How’s the tattoo?”

Loras took his hand, still beaming, and gave it a squeeze. Renly’s stomach flipped again, and he had to fight down the blush creeping at his cheeks. “I’m good,” he said, “and the tattoo isn’t bothering me or itching or anything. It looks great. Thanks again, by the way.” He nodded at Renly’s desk. “I’m glad you got them.”

“Those are from you?”

“Yeah. Didn’t Margie give the game away? She always says my handwriting is the worst of any of us, and we think Dad’s got Parkinson’s so that’s saying something.”

“I had no idea who they were from. They’re beautiful, though, thank you.”

Loras smiled, and Renly would swear that a soft blush of his own was tinting Loras’ cheeks a faint pink. But that might have just been the light. “Margaery gave me a hell of a look when I picked them all. It was her who insisted on arranging them, since apparently I have no skill whatsoever with that, but she understood the meaning well enough. In fact, she then went on for about two hours on all the meanings of the bouquets she’s sent Sansa, but I stopped listening after about ten minutes and let her prattle on to Willas instead. He’s the one with the real interest in all of that.”

“The meaning of what? The flowers?”

“Uh huh. There was this Victorian idea that every flower had a different meaning, so in different combinations flowers could pass on messages to the person they were given to. That’s why red and cream roses are common for bridal bouquets. Together they mean unity, and separately red is love and cream is happiness. Margaery usually handles the bridal ones, she knows exactly what to pick to make the most beautiful collections.”

“I know,” Sansa said from behind her desk, and Renly snorted.

“I don’t really do the bouquet-making. I’m more the one in the greenhouse with Garlan, growing them all. We’re trying to create a new breed of rose, something like a damask but a dark yellow colour so it looks like gold. Dad’s idea. Grandma thinks he’s mad, of course; she’s always saying ‘haven’t we got enough roses in the world already?’ but she’s just as excited as we are really. Garlan says if we manage it he’ll order a dozen for the end of every pew in the church when he and Leonette get married.”

“Wow.” Renly was somewhat overwhelmed. He’d had no idea how much work went into running a florist; he supposed he should have had some inkling realistically, but it had never even crossed his mind. Shifting on his stool, he fixed Loras with a grin and raised an eyebrow.

“So come on, then. What does my bouquet mean?”

Loras was definitely blushing now, but he picked the vase off the side and set it on the chair carefully, holding each flower out to Renly as he explained. “This one, scarlet geranium, is _consolation_. Gladiolus is _strength of character_. Yarrow is _healing_. Apple blossom is Willas’ favourite, that one means _better things to come_. It’s a bit of a slapdash one to be honest, like I said, I’m no good at this kind of thing, but it was supposed to convey ‘I’m sorry, I hope you have a better family in future’. Or something.” He was looking away at this point, adorably shy; not at all like the arrogant, self-assured character he’d been when he first walked into Renly’s tattoo parlour, and Renly felt his heart melt a little.

Yes. He could definitely understand Sansa’s crush.

* * *

 

Margaery’s bright voice heralded the arrival of the Tyrells later that evening as well. She and Sansa had their date night that evening and were heading to the ballet to see Swan Lake, Margaery’s favourite and the role Sansa had always wanted to dance until she became too tall at sixteen. Margaery laughed and made a joke about having to get Sansa her own Odette tiara and tutu, and Sansa blushed. Meanwhile, Loras sat in Renly’s chair as he cleaned up for the end of the day and played around with the stereo system, flicking through Renly’s iPod.

“Do you have anything on here that’s not popular with thirteen year olds of some sort or description? You go from Britney Spears–”

“Gay icon!”

“–to My Chemical Romance. That’s the kind of thing I was listening to when I was too young to know better and tried dyeing and straightening my hair. Margaery still has photos, which she insists she’s keeping to show any future boyfriend of mine just how embarrassing I was as a teenager. I’ve yet to find any similar blackmail material on her because she’s just _too bloody perfect_.”

“Or just better at hiding the evidence to the contrary, dearest.”

“You are perfect,” Sansa said quietly, and Margaery beamed at her.

“Come on, darling, or we’ll be late.” The pair of them said their hasty goodbyes, Margaery kissing Loras on the cheek, and then they were gone, the only sign of their passing a trace of jasmine and lily of the valley perfumes still clinging to the air. Loras looked at Renly and swung his feet idly off the end of the chair, chin in the palm of his hand.

“D’you fancy a drink? I know a good place.”

“Lead on, MacDuff,” Renly agreed with a grand sweep of his arm, and Loras laughed, grabbing his coat.

The pub Loras took him to was a small, tucked-away kind of place on one of the less busy streets in town, with dark panelled walls and a Tudor style exterior. Inside, the floors sloped one way or the other, making Renly feel like he was drunk already; Loras, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease and led him straight through to the back room, where he settled his coat and bag on a large wooden bench at an unoccupied table and turned to ask Renly what he wanted to drink.

“A red wine, if they’ve got any decent ones.”

“Sure.” He disappeared through the narrow corridor, and Renly took the opportunity to get himself settled at the table. The New Barrel pub was cosy, warm and homely, especially with the blazing fire in the corner behind a mesh guard. The windows were paned with milky, bubbly glass, the carpets a little threadbare, but he could see why Loras liked it so much there. The place felt welcoming, felt as though everyone inside was part of the family; he could imagine the Tyrells’ florist shop feeling a similar way, if a little brighter and airier for the sake of the plants.

Loras appeared again a moment later, carrying a glass of red wine and a pint glass full of cloudy cider so thick Renly thought he could probably chew it, which he placed beside his own coat after handing Renly his drink.

“What’ve you got?”

“Old Rosie,” Loras told him, “best cider in the country. We brew it, of course. Or rather, the Somerset branch of our family do.” He grinned. “In truth it’s the Fossoways’ cider. Leonette and her parents are the ‘green apples’, who run this place and have the eating apple orchards up here in the North. Her cousins and aunt and uncle, the ‘red apples’, are the ones that run the cider brewery in Somerset. They’ve been friends of the family for years. In fact, apparently they used to be kind of bannermen of ours way back when noble houses and everything were a thing; hence the ‘Old Rosie’. We’re the Roses, and they’re the Apples.” He smiled, taking a sip of his cider, and Renly gazed at him in wonder.

“That’s amazing.”

“It’s pretty standard, I’d imagine, among the aristocracy. I mean, Dad still technically holds a title so we’re all supposed to be addressed as something like ‘Baron Tyrell’, but we’ve not used them in years. We’re already posh enough, being from the posh end of Bath. We don’t need to have that hanging over our heads as well.”

“Tell me more about your family,” Renly suddenly blurted, staring at him in earnest. Those golden eyes were bewitching, he was sure of it. Loras’ face spread into a shy grin and he nodded, taking another sip of his cider.

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Everything. What’s it like working with your family? What’re your brothers and sisters like? I just… want to know more. About you. All – about you all, I mean.”

Loras’ face softened.

“Well, there’s six of us at home when everyone’s in. That’s Grandma, our dad’s mum, Mum, Dad, Willas, Garlan, me and Margaery. Mum and Dad are one of those couples who’ve been together for years and still do gross things like sign their anniversary cards with the Greek for ‘darling, I love you’, because that’s where they went on their honeymoon back when dinosaurs roamed the earth.”

Renly laughed.

“Willas is the eldest of us. He takes after Mum most, I think. He’s quiet, he reads a lot – whip smart, he could have gotten into Oxford or Cambridge ten times over if he’d wanted, but he works in the shop and does the Open University instead, studying Classics or something like that. More often than not he’s sat behind the till at work during the five minutes breathing time we get with his Ancient Greek textbook out, translating Homer or Herodotus or someone like that.” At Renly’s ‘wow’ of admiration, Loras grinned. “Bit of a sad git really, he needs to get a life.” It was obviously tongue in cheek; just hearing Loras speak, Renly could tell how much he adored and looked up to his family.

“Garlan’s the next oldest. He was always the practical joker when we were younger, always doing things like coaxing me up the apple tree in the garden and then getting me stuck and climbing down instead of rescuing me, leaving me to yell for Willas or Dad. Grandma was always calling the pair of us ‘stupid little boys’ when we were that age. He’s getting engaged to Leonette soon, supposedly as a surprise on her birthday in May but we’re all pretty sure she twigged ages ago and is just playing along. Then there’s me, and then Margaery.”

His voice turned warm as honey as he mentioned his sister.

“Margaery’s my favourite, and Grandma’s too. She’s studying fashion with business at university, wants to set up her own brand of clothing, and even though Grandma says fashion and art and everything like that are ‘Mickey Mouse degrees’ and ‘a waste of time’, the moment Margie said that’s what she was reading, it was suddenly the best idea ever. To give her credit, she is very good.” He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking the curls loose. “We’re the closest in age, so we were closest as kids. Still are, I think. We used to do things like play princess and rescuing knight, where Garlan was the fire-breathing dragon, and I’d build her sand castles in the sandpit and teach her how to fly kites at the seaside whenever we went with Mum and Dad. When we got a bit older and still played the knight-and-princess games, we used to fight over who got to marry the prince at the end.” He laughed. “I always let her win, obviously. She’s always been the only one I’d ever let beat me at anything. Garlan says I’m stubborn as a mule… Grandma says worse.”

Renly listened enraptured. The Tyrells were an undeniably close-knit family from what he’d seen of Loras and his sister; theirs was the kind of family Renly had dreamed of and wished for as a child. He tried to imagine playing games with Robert and Stannis; he thought he could remember the odd game of hide-and-seek whenever Robert deigned to come home from university when Renly was five or six, but beyond that, there was nothing. Mr Cressen had been the one to play Renly’s games with him, until he got too old. Then Renly was his own playmate, and it had stayed that way for years until finally Stannis told him he was too old for imaginary games anymore and Renly was packed off to boarding school where all the other rich, unwanted sons of past-it families went.

“What about you?” Loras asked. “What’s your life like?”

 _Lonely_ , thought Renly. “It’s just fine,” he shrugged, and took a gulp of wine. Loras watched him with warm amber eyes the colour of his cider, and didn’t say a word.

* * *

  
Sansa adored the ballet, she said as she came into work after her day off. Margaery had been wonderful, attentive, loving, and they’d had a wonderful dinner at the nice restaurant in the old judge’s lodgings in town before going back to Margaery’s flat for a nightcap. Renly didn’t ask for detail, and Sansa, blushing red and giggling like a schoolgirl, didn’t need to give it. He was happy for her, of course, especially now that she’d found someone who appreciated her as she was after that monumental dickhole of an ex of hers, but all the same he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of jealousy. He wished he could have had a romantic date culminating in tender, loving sex (or even better, bed-shaking, waking-the-neighbours kind of sex) with Loras, but as much as Renly liked him, he couldn’t see that ever happening. Loras was beautiful, well-adjusted, and clever. Renly was a tattoo artist who hated needles and had the worst family dynamic this side of the Lannisters. It wasn’t going to happen.

He let Sansa burble on happily until there was a knock at the door. Sansa flew downstairs to fling open the door, and squealed in delight as the deliveryman handed her the biggest bunch of flowers yet. She was about to turn and leave when he produced another bunch from the back of his van and passed them to her, and she thanked him profusely before carrying them both back up to Renly’s parlour and placing them in the vases already set out.

This time, Margaery had sent her a dozen red roses, in amongst camellias (Renly’s mother’s favourite flower), carnations, Spanish jasmine and lilies; Sansa exclaimed over the size and beauty of the bouquet, clearly absolutely thrilled. On the card was drawn a pair of ballet shoes, elegantly lined in narrow pen, and Margaery’s familiar signature. The other bunch was a recognisable Loras creation of something yellow, white heather, a somewhat scraggly-looking pink flower Renly didn’t know, Sweet William, and something such a deep blue it looked almost indigo. Sansa admired the bell-shaped flowers of the latter as she handed the bunch to Renly, who looked for a label. There wasn’t any attached that he could see, however, so he shrugged and put them back on his desk anyway.

Neither he nor Sansa saw a small card flutter to the floor, tied haphazardly with a scrap of green Christmas ribbon, which read:

_Another drink tonight?_

* * *

  
Time passed so slowly that afternoon that Renly was sure someone had messed with the clock. He was fidgety and distracted in between appointments, to the point where Sansa eventually shoved him out of the door and insisted that he take his lunch break outside so that she didn’t have to listen to him constantly tapping his pen against his sketchpad. With nothing better to do, Renly decided to get one of his standard black americanos and a sandwich from the coffee shop downstairs, and head on over to Tyrell’s to see the florist shop for himself.

Armed with his coffee and a chicken Caesar wrap, he crossed the road carefully between two parked cars (nevertheless only narrowly avoiding a bus that came around the corner just as he was at the midway point) and entered the shop, smiling to himself as a bell rang above the door. The tall, curly-haired man at the desk with the kind, wise eyes and the glasses must have been Willas, he decided, and he approached slowly, painfully aware that he was the only one in the shop.

“Hi,” he said, feeling bizarrely nervous. “I’m Renly, from the tattooist across the road.”

“Ah. So you’re Sansa’s boss?” Willas’ voice was deep and pleasing, as warm as the inside of the shop. Renly brushed the petal of an orchid with one fingertip and nodded.

“That would be me.”

“Yes, we’ve heard a lot about you from Margaery and Sansa herself. And I hear you’re the one who did Loras that immense favour and covered up that tattoo on his side with something half-decent.”

“Only half-decent?” Renly joked, taking a quick sip of coffee that burned the roof of his mouth, “I’ll have to work on it a bit more then!”

Willas smiled. “No, no, we’re all very impressed. Even Grandma proclaimed it ‘passable’. High praise, I assure you.” He cocked his head slightly. “What can we help you with today?”

“I actually had a question, which I understand from your brother that you’re the man to help me with. I got some flowers from – from someone this morning, and I was just wondering if you knew what they meant? Loras was telling me about some Victorian thing–”

“Floriography, yes. What was in the bouquet?”

“I’m not sure. Something yellow, a pink one, something very dark blue… and a Sweet William. Oh, and heather of some sort, but it was white.”

Willas smiled, gentle amusement twinkling in his brown eyes. “That’s not much to go on, I’m afraid.” He gestured around the shop. “Can you see any of them here?”

Renly looked around, and then, with a nod from Willas, went and picked up one of each of the flowers he recognised from the large racks at the back of the store. The place was enormous, easily twice or even three times the size of Renly’s tattoo parlour, and he wove between stands of premade bouquets and racks of garden accessories to bring the flowers back to Willas, laying them on the counter.

“Oh,” Willas said, in a tone of surprise, “these are… who were these from?”

“I’m not sure,” Renly half-lied. “There was no card.”

“They’re an interesting combination. This yellow one is acacia, _secret love_. White heather, _protection, wishes will come true_. The pink is ragged-Robin, for _wit_. Sweet William is my mother’s favourite, _grant me one smile_. And the last one, the one that makes it interesting, wolfsbane, _misanthropy_. Although that has also been interpreted as _chivalry, a knight in shining armour_. Overall I’m not entirely sure what this person was trying to tell you,” he laughed softly, “but it seems fairly positive, up until _misanthropy_. At least there’s a real selection.”

Renly barely heard him. _Secret love_ , he thought. _A knight in shining armour_.

* * *

  
Renly went home that night in a daze. The messages from the flowers were running around and around in his head. _Secret love. A knight in shining armour_. And he’d been so sure that Loras wasn’t interested, wouldn’t ever be interested. But wait. There was no card, no signature. Even if Loras had made the bouquet, that was no guarantee that they were from him personally. Maybe Margaery had been off that day, or someone had asked him to handle the orders whilst everyone else was busy. There were a thousand things it could be other than Loras trying to use flowers to tell him something; he should stop deluding himself and get the boy out of his head. The likelihood of Loras going out with him was lower than the chances of Robert becoming teetotal.

Feeling suddenly depressed, he turned Netflix on on his PlayStation and pulled up _Bridget Jones’ Diary_ , grabbing his own pot of half-eaten Ben & Jerry’s out of the freezer to join in with _All By Myself_.

* * *

  
The next day was Renly’s day off, which he decided to spend doing what any normal human being would do and sleeping in until half past twelve before stalking Loras on Facebook for the rest of the afternoon. His profile was made up of numerous modelling contract-worthy shots of him on top of mountains and on beaches, curls ruffled in the breeze, amber eyes glinting in the brilliant sunlight. Clearly nowhere in Britain, then. Renly could count the number of times they’d had sunny weather in the past month on one hand. He was rifling through Loras’ _Peru, 2012_ album with a spoonful of cereal jammed in his mouth when there was a knock at the front door. Swearing, he stumbled up, grabbing his dressing gown for decency, and opened the door, sleep-ruffled and bleary-eyed, to find the man himself standing there on his doormat. Renly almost reached out to touch, to make sure that he wasn’t still staring at some photo of a windswept Loras somewhere in Peru that mysteriously looked just like his own hallway before coming to his senses and stepping aside.

“Come in, come in. Jesus, sorry about the mess, it’s–”

“Sorry, I know it’s your day off,” Loras said sheepishly, standing in the centre of the living room awkwardly as though he wasn’t sure whether he’d be allowed to sit down. Renly flopped onto the couch, which he seemed to take as permission, and perched himself on the edge of the couch cushion as he looked Renly over.

“Did I wake you?”

“Nope,” Renly said, cracking a yawn nonetheless, “been awake for ages. Twenty whole minutes, maybe.” He grinned sleepily. “Did you want a coffee or anything?”

“No, thanks. I’m okay. Um, Willas said you’d been by the shop on Friday?”

“Yes. I got another bunch of flowers and was curious about what they meant. Apparently whoever sent them hates me, though,” he said lightly, his eyes on Loras, “because they sent me something meaning ‘misanthropy’.”

“Oh.” Loras bit his lip, looking downcast. He fidgeted with the cuff of his sweatshirt, picking at a loose thread.

“Apparently they could also mean chivalry, though. A knight in shining armour. It’s been a long time since I had one of those, and even then he was only imaginary.”

Loras smiled a little weakly. “I always wanted to be a knight when I was little.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you? Who wouldn’t want to be a knight – always off riding to battle for glory and riches, swinging swords and winning tournaments, jousting, proving yourself. Something physical and demanding, that only the best of the best could accomplish. I never wanted to be stuck behind a counter in a shop wrapping flowers for cheating husbands who want to placate their wives, or teenagers who think a single rose on Valentine’s Day will get them into that girl’s pants. People buy flowers for nice reasons too, of course, but there’s this great fat oaf who’s always coming in and buying the most extravagant bouquets for his wife because he’s always off fucking his PA or the maid at the hotel he’s in or some hooker in his limo.”

“Sounds like Robert,” Renly said dryly, and Loras said “I think his name _was_ Robert, actually – oh.”

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t surprise me in the least.” Renly snorted. “He’d better be glad she’s too occupied with her – well, with her others to care.”

Loras just stared at him for several long moments before shaking his head. “And whenever I’m at home, Margaery spends all of the time she’s not with her girlfriend asking me when I’m going to find a ‘hot young thing’ to ‘end the years of monkhood since you came out and your ridiculously high standards enforced your total lack of a sex life’. Honestly, I think she’s more invested in it than I am.”

Renly nodded. “I can relate to that feeling. Every single guy I’ve ever crushed on has turned out to be undeniably straight, an arsehole, or both at the same time.”

Loras winced, nodding, before picking at the thread on his jumper for another few moments. He looked up a minute later, asking in an arch voice, “Is there anyone you’re crushing on at the moment, though? There has to be, surely.”

Renly’s heart skipped a beat.

He took a deep breath before whispering ‘fuck it’ and taking the plunge. “There’s one.” He smiled as Loras’ head shot up immediately, brown eyes wide.

“There is?”

“Yep. I don’t know for certain if he’s interested, though. We went out for a drink once, but I didn’t hear anything after that.”

“Maybe he asked you again and you didn’t come, so he didn’t know you were interested.”

“Did he now?” Renly asked, his small grin growing wider. “And did he say that with wolfsbane flowers, perhaps?”

“Maybe,” Loras admitted, a brilliant red blush staining his cheeks.

“You’re adorable,” Renly grinned, reaching up to wind a hand gently in Loras’ curls. “Come here,” he breathed, and Loras inched closer on the sofa, leaning in and closing his eyes. Their lips met softly, Renly’s hand stroking through the thick silk of Loras’ hair, and their tongues brushed shyly once, twice, before Loras broke away.

“There was a card, asking you for another drink – didn’t you see it?”

“Nope.”

“Damn it,” he mumbled, leaning in again for another kiss. Renly smiled.

“Never mind. I got the message eventually.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Floriography** (or, understanding the choices of flowers in Sansa’s and Renly’s bouquets from the Tyrells)  
>  Sansa:
> 
> Lavender rose: enchantment  
> Balloon flower: endless love, honesty  
> Aster: symbol of love, daintiness  
> Heartsease pansy: think of me  
> Purple hibiscus: delicate beauty
> 
> Baby’s breath: innocence, pure of heart  
> Dwarf sunflower: adoration, pride  
> Yellow tulip: there’s sunshine in your smile  
> Lemon blossom: fidelity in love  
> Yellow jasmine: modesty, grace, elegance
> 
> Red rose: desire, love  
> Red camellia: unpretending excellence, you’re a flame in my heart  
> Carnation: woman love, fascination  
> Spanish jasmine: sensual desire  
> Yellow lily: I’m walking on air, gaiety
> 
> Renly:  
> Red geranium: consolation  
> Gladiolus: strength of character, generosity  
> Apple blossom: better things to come, good fortune  
> Yarrow: healing
> 
> Yellow acacia: secret love  
> White heather: protection, wishes will come true  
> Ragged-Robin: wit  
> Sweet William: grant me one smile  
> Wolfsbane: chivalry, a knight
> 
> (all definitions from [allflorists.co.uk](http://www.allflorists.co.uk/advice_flowerMeanings.asp))
> 
> The song I'm imagining playing behind this entire thing is 'You're In Love' by Betty Who because sickeningly cute.


End file.
